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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27787120">Advent</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian'>OldShrewsburyian</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Timeless (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Catholic Character, Catholic Imagery, Churches &amp; Cathedrals, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Music, One Shot, Post-Season/Series 02, Travel, insofar as I reject the Christmas special out of hand and without compunction</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:22:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,048</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27787120</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some time ago, extasiswings challenged me to write a fic for these characters on the prompt "Advent." This idea struck me as rather brilliant, and I tried to do it justice.</p><p>Canonical bereavement is discussed.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Garcia Flynn/Lorena Flynn, Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Advent</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/gifts">extasiswings</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The cathedral is a space built for light. Beyond its portal (stonework delicate as lace,) the noise of Zagreb’s main square falls away. The vast interior echoes with the footfalls of tourists and worshipers; the vault is spangled like that of heaven; everywhere there is the faint, comforting smell of candle wax and incense. Flynn dips his fingers into the stoup of holy water, chilled by the December air. Having crossed himself, he takes a pew far enough into the nave to avoid the tourists who come in, exclaim, take photographs, and leave.</p><p>In the loft, the organist is practicing something… or perhaps just playing around. His brain tries to seize on fragments of melody that become lost in showers of bright notes, half-fanfares. Flynn takes a deep breath. At this hour of the day, the church is quiet. Morning Masses have been said; a grizzled priest with soft eyes has left the confessional. The space is expansive, embracing. <i>Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…</i> In the front pews kneel a few old men in faded trousers, a few old women with gnarled hands on rosaries worn smooth. Occasionally, tourists in knots and couples and solitary earnestness will drift around the side aisles, pausing to peer at marble altars, at time-darkened altar paintings.</p><p>Under the baldachin, in the apse, stands the Holy Mother illuminated in gold, smiling at the child on her hip. For all the sorrow of the future, for all the uncertainty following the angel’s coming, here they are shown in the fullness of human happiness. Not for them the reminder that the close-woven branches of the Advent wreath are also foreshadowing the Crown of Thorns. </p><p>“I want to do it!” Lorena had said, laughing, when he had come home to find the dining room table covered in branches and her hands effort-swollen, covered in sap. “It’s — ow — it’s a nice tradition! Did you know you can buy branches by the pound? The florist had six kinds of fir!”</p><p>“Hmm.” He remembers the taste of pine sap on her fingers, the blood warm under her skin. </p><p>“It’ll be nice for Iris,” she said softly.</p><p>“She’ll be too young to remember.”</p><p>“Well then,” Lorena had returned, leaning her head against him, “this can be my practice year.” She had won, of course. They had finished the wreath together, and he had arranged the rest of the branches on the mantelpiece, swept the remnants into the fire.</p><p>And Advent, that brings light into darkness, carries with it also the reminder of death, the certainty of judgment. <i>Give us grace to cast away the works of darkness…</i> Flynn suspects strongly that Lucy has brought them both to Zagreb with the ulterior motive of Getting Him Away. She’s spoken of her desire to explore the transnational history of republicanism; of her desire to take a break from Stanford after the hectic Autumn and Winter quarters; of her desire to see Croatia and its Christmas markets. But he catches her looking at him, worrying and trying not to.</p><p>Tradition holds that St. Joseph died long before the Crucifixion. It is, of course, the only explanation for his absence, the only excuse for his not protecting his family from the unthinkable. Particularly at this time of year, Flynn finds it hard to view his own failure as inevitable. If he had said something to Lorena, who was so clever and so brave… If he had been more on his guard, even against the unimaginable… Sometimes he wonders what happened to Iris’ presents, hidden on all the top shelves of the house.</p><p>Men and women with folders under their arms have filed into the chancel, chatting softly with each other, draping coats casually over wooden chairs, leaving their scarves on. They warm up by singing children’s songs and tongue-twisters. And then they begin: <i>Holy Maiden, Mother of God…</i> The words are familiar, certain; but the harmonies yearn. The winter twilight darkens outside the long windows, and the stands of votive candles seem to emerge from the cathedral’s shadows. By statues and altars the flames burn, each fragile, each part of a beacon of prayer, of hope.</p><p>The conductor gestures the choir into silence, and a figure slips into the end of his pew. “Hey.”</p><p>He reaches out for her. “Lucy.” She curls up against his side automatically, burrowing her head against his shoulder, both her hands gripping one of his.</p><p>“The archives were good,” she says. “But I’m cold.”</p><p>“Mm.” He kisses the top of her head.</p><p>“You okay?”</p><p>He doesn’t know when she developed this sixth sense for him. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever cease to be astonished by it. Flynn exhales. “Yes.”</p><p>She doesn’t say that she is unconvinced. She doesn’t ask a follow-up question. She bends, and kisses the knuckles of his hand.</p><p>Flynn swallows, moistens his lips. “It’s your feast day at the end of the week.”</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>“Mmhm. Lucy, bringer of light.” Flynn smiles down at her. “According to legend, she argued a pagan king to a standstill.”</p><p>His Lucy laughs. “I like that.”</p><p>“A good namesake for you,” he agrees.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>“It was a compliment.”</p><p>“Well,” says Lucy, feigning skepticism, “how about you stop complimenting me and take me for mulled wine instead? I’m freezing.”</p><p>“Yours to command.” By the door of the church, he fishes coins from his pocket, drops them into one of the boxes not labeled <i>for the upkeep of the church</i> in six languages.</p><p>“Is that,” demands Lucy, “a literal poor box?”</p><p>“It is — and no, professor, you are not going to examine it as a specimen, not when there is wine awaiting us.”</p><p>She hums, acquiescent, and leans more firmly against him. “Have I mentioned,” she says, after a few moments, “that I love you?”</p><p>“I…” begins Flynn, and stops. He is not sure how he would continue.</p><p>“I will keep saying it,” says Lucy, “in hopes that someday, you will stop behaving as though someone sandbagged you when I do.”</p><p>He thinks, looking down at the lights of sky and city reflected in her eyes, that perhaps love can be as simple as this: light in the darkness, and a coming that is no less miraculous for being expected. “<i>I ja tebe volim,</i>” says Flynn.</p>
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